


The Dart Revere

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/F, Fluff, hoopler, mollrene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene takes such good care of Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dart Revere

"All fine, precious?" My vision is blurry for a moment when Irene slides the blindfold off, and my eyes sting and run in the sudden brightness.

I blink at the sting and nod, "All fine." It comes out squeaky and trembly, though it's true.

Irene kisses my temple, then the corner of my mouth, which makes me smile. She smells of sweat and jasmine. The hollow of her throat is gleaming and when she hugs me, I put my nose in it.

Irene lays her cheek against the top of my head and strokes my hair, “That was perfect, Molly. You were so wonderful, precious.”

I sigh a really long sigh. I wish I could say something that nice in return, but my brain is a little hormone soup, and I have no hope of managing it, “Thank you.” Irene squeezes me and strokes my back, and I smile so big that I get the giggles thinking of my own face. I get the giggles afterward sometimes. There’s a very specific collection of brain chemicals that causes that. Can’t quite remember what they are at the moment. Serotonin, oxytocin, adrenaline? Adrenaline’d be falling by now, I think. Irene giggles a bit with me and rubs my back and I honestly may just melt away into nothing. She reaches behind her, lifts her dressing gown off the bedpost and wraps it around me. The cool, smooth silk raises gooseflesh on my chest and clings slightly to the sweat between my shoulder blades.

Irene reaches behind her again and a moment later she brings a cool, damp glass of water to my lips to my lips, “Have a sip, Molly. Got to replenish, darling.”

“I can hold a cup, Irene,” I sip anyway.

“Are you falling asleep, Molly?” She reaches out and switches off the lamp on the bedside table, then hugs me a bit closer.

Nod and yawn, “Sorry.”

Irene laughs, “On the contrary, it makes me feel rather accomplished.”

Giggle myself to sleep with my nose still against Irene’s neck.

It’s nearly dark when I wake up. I stretch, get out of bed and walk into the sitting room, knotting the sash of Irene’s dressing gown round my waist.

Irene’s stretched out on the sofa with a book, wearing one of my jumpers, “Listen to this, darling,” she says as soon as I enter the room. Like she’d been waiting for me, “‘I’ve got an arrow here,’” she presses one hand to her breast, “Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere.’”

I join her on the sofa, pulling her feet onto my lap, “That’s Emily Dickinson, isn’t it?”

Irene nods and looks up, eyebrow arched, “She was a lesbian, you know.”

I yawn and squeeze Irene’s left foot, “I hear she was the first lesbian.”

Irene laughs, “Emily Dickinson invented lesbianism? Lucky thing for you, wasn’t it?”

I shrug, “It’s a mixed bag, really. I’d probably get more sleep, if she hadn’t.”

She laughs again, “As if I hadn’t just heard you snoring away in there, drooling prettily all over my pillow.”

“You heard me drooling? Do I drool really loudly, or was it the pillowcases making the noise?”

“The pillowcases, definitely,” Irene withdraws her feet from my lap and pulls me closer to her.

I lean my head against her shoulder, “I suppose that after 1500 thread count, linens become sentient, and they moan about it when you drool on them.”

Irene brushes my hair off the back of my neck with her hand and slips one finger under my collar, “Someone’s waked up on the cheeky side of the bed, hmm?”

She’s only teasing, I know, but a hot little flutter of anticipation starts somewhere behind my belly button anyway. I swallow, “Yes, miss.”

She kisses my forehead, and I can feel she’s smiling, “I think I’ll have a bath. Do you want to join me, precious?”

“Yes, miss.”

Irene runs a steaming bath and tosses in one of those pink jelly cubes from the jar on the dressing table. Well they’re not jelly, though they do look like jelly, and they don’t taste nearly as nice as they smell. The jelly(ish) thing melts away, leaving the water a deep, glittery pink and filling the room with freesia-scented steam. Irene lights a row of candles on the dressing table and switches off the lights, and I feel like I’m about to bear witness to some sort of witchery. Irene is a witch, of course, though she doesn’t need potions and candles to work her magic.

Irene eases into the water with a little sigh and shuts her eyes for a moment, then looks up at me, “Are you waiting to be invited?”

I suppose I am. My hands are even clasped in front of me. I take off her dressing gown and step in between her parted knees instead of replying. The water is just this side of too hot, and it’s lovely. I hadn’t realised I was sore before. I’m sure I’m going to simmer away to a glittery pink Molly Hooper broth. All my muscles and bones and tendon and brain will dissolve away here in the sweetly scented heat between Irene’s knees, and I’ll be a grateful little puddle swirling around her.

“That’s better, precious,” Irene’s voice is a tingly whisper. I nod. She kisses the back of my neck, gathers my hair up, and begins to braid it.

I shut my eyes and draw a deep breath to say something sweet. But my puddlefication has already begun, and all that I can bring to the surface is the end of the Emily Dickinson poem, “‘Fell, they will say in skirmish! Vanquished my soul will know, by but a simple arrow sped by an archer’s bow.’”

Irene brings her knees a little tighter round my hips like a hug, “Mmmm,” she kisses the back of my neck again, lays her beautiful head against mine, “I love you, too.”


End file.
